


The Body

by AlexNow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexNow/pseuds/AlexNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="small">“Hollow people still have a soul, Louis.”</span><br/>-<br/><span class="small"><i>Short story with no real meaning.</i></span></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Body

**Author's Note:**

> I edited the ending because it was too cheesy for my liking and I forgot to explain some things.   
>  -Alex

He has turned into a skeleton under a million layers of skin. His eyes are hollow, his smiles are forced and well-practiced all at once, and his words hold no true meaning. His steps are automatic and as a cold gush of wind hits him from behind, he doesn’t even flinch. When he stands aside of the bus stop, waiting for his bus to the house full of a hollow family like him, full of annoyance and rage, and it starts snowing, he doesn’t even blink. Blankets of snow begin enveloping his head and shoulders and he isn’t even showing a slight sign that he’s freezing.

When the bus arrives in front of him, slow as to not lose control of the wheels, he steps inside and sits down in the first seat he finds. His impassive eyes stare at the window outside and although there’s many things to view outside as they move out of sight with the bus’ movement, he doesn’t take anything in.

“Hey.” A slow voice says, low and the boy with the hollow body doesn’t even flinch at the sudden voice beside him when he has no recollection of someone sitting next to him. He doesn’t turn to the voice either and continues staring out the window, mind blank. He doesn’t acknowledge the person beside him, and the guy doesn’t try talking to the hollow body again.

The bus is quiet, and he doesn’t know whether it’s because it’s lonely or because he’s just blocking out the sound of freezing people eager to return to their warm homes before thicker blankets of snow cover the streets. There should be no insects anywhere near, no life forms besides the human beings surrounding him murmuring about their eager taste buds waiting for something warm to hit them. It’s what the fits the weather, after all. It’s cold, quiet and depressive.

There are flies though, buzzing around the bus and one lands on the hollow body’s exposed wrist, and although he ignores it at first, doesn’t even notice it, as it walks up his arm it begins to tickle his wrist and even then no thought crosses his mind as his moves his arm swiftly to send it flying away. Flicking his wrist, the head of the guy sitting beside him snaps his head to face the hollow body, and even though the hollow body doesn’t see him, his fellow bus passenger is staring at him with wide eyes and his lips are parted in surprise.

The hollow body turns and stares, and still no emotion is apparent on his face as the guy beside him abruptly grabs his hand and pulls it up, observes his exposed skin.

“Are these…?” He trails off and the hollow body offhandedly follows the movement of the guy’s fingertips on his wrist with his eyes. His fingers are light on his skin, almost not even there and he looks shocked as he gapes at what his gaze catches. The hollow body catches on what he’s looking back, and he looks away, but doesn’t find the energy nor interest to pull his arm away.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” His voice breaks, why does his voice break? Wet begins to drip down from the guy with the hollow body’s wrist in his hand and fall to his lap. Is he—is the guy crying? Why is crying?  Is that sadness he sees, filling the guy’s face to the brink? Why is he sad? The hollow body doesn’t understand.

“Why do you hurt yourself?” The guys asks, and his grip tightens only a small bit, doesn’t seem to believe the scars, recent _cuts on his wrist._ As if suddenly realizing the boundaries he crossed by asking such questions to a stranger, he pulls back, drops his hand and quickly wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

Thrusting his hand out to the hollow body, he hiccups, says, “Hi, my name’s Harry.”

The hollow body stares, doesn’t even glance at his hand. Tilting his head to the side, he doesn’t say a thing and Harry bites his lip, drops his hand and stares at his lap. There are still wet stains on his jeans. His eyes stop at his neck though, and like before his eyes widen and he chokes. On his tears?  His voice?  The air he breathes? The hollow body doesn’t know.

“What’s your name?” He asks, and he looks hurt, continues to glance at the hollow body’s wrist and seems like he’s the one with the red wrists, full of pain and red with anger. _Recent._

The hollow body doesn’t respond, doesn’t react and Harry’s eyes are pleading.

“I don’t have a name,” The hollow body responds, and he is honest about it. Just then he stands up and as the bus continues running and bumps make the small amount of people on the bus jump in their seats. The hollow body never loses his footing as the bus stops and he steps off, his shoes at soaked completely at the snow that greets his feet but he continues walking. He doesn’t get too far away though, before he feels a hand wrap around his wrist and stops him in his steps just as the bus drives away.

He stops confused, and when he turns around he sees the same guy. The one with the low voice and the eyes full of tears. What was his name again? “You must have a name.” The guys says. The hollow body feels... feels _tired_ for the first time in a matter of months, _years_ he can’t quite remember at the moment. Doesn’t want to recall.

“I don’t.” He responds. Harry (that’s his name, isn’t it? How can he remember? It’s just another name, one useless and not worth recalling). He turns and continues walking, and doesn’t stop until he reaches the house he has lived in ever since his birth. He hears the squelching behind him of Harry following him but doesn’t care, never does.

“You’re back. Make yourself useful, fag, and grab me a beer.” The hollow body does as said, and he hears Harry enter from behind him without saying a word. Just when the hollow body hands the man on the couch the beer, though, the man seems to suddenly have a flash of anger and he throws the glass bottle to the hollow body with enough force for it to send the hollow body to the ground and shatter at his feet.

“Hey!” Harry yells, and he’s suddenly by the hollow body’s sight, kneeling by his head as he watches in horror the glass digging into the hollow body’s skin.

“Bitch, this isn’t the beer I wanted!” He screams and he doesn’t even turn around as he yells, keeps watching the television, voice trembling with rage and when he turns around his eyes flare once they fall upon Harry.

“Who the fuck are you. One of Louis’ sex toys?” The hollow man’s father tells Harry, and Harry glares at him, holds back tears.

“Harry Styles, you?” Harry doesn’t seem very smart, the hollow body realizes, seeing as he’d just reveal his name to a complete stranger. A dangerous one at that. He sits up and stares though, feels no pain of the wounds on the side of his face.

“That’s the only beer in the house.” He responds, and the man no longer on the couch lashes out, kicks the hollow body twice. One on the side of his head and one to his stomach. Just as  Harry notices he’s about to kick a third time he quickly stands up and before the hollow body could process what’s about to happen he grab a whole body of a bottle on the coffee table near and smacks it onto the man’s head. The man collapses, passes out, and he seems shocked at what he just did.

“I can’t believe I just did that.” Harry says, and he’s panting. From lack of endurance? Unlikely. Perhaps shock? No. The hollow body turns to him and concludes it’s from disbelief, and he’s having trouble breathing from it.

“You hurt him.” He says, and Harry’s eyes snap to him.

“Did he do that to you?” He nods towards the hollow body’s arms, his wrists in particular.

“No. They were self-inflicted.” Why does Harry look like he’s about to cry again?

“Why?”

The hollow body tilts his head, stands up to almost be at level with Harry Styles, “Sometimes I feel something when I do.” He admits. He never reveals such things to anyone, and especially not strangers. He doesn’t think he ever would even if he had friends. Are those what friends are for? The hollow body can’t remember.

“Your name’s Louis.” Harry says, recalling what the man said, and the hollow body sighs. He’s feeling tired again. How can he feel tired?

“I already told you, Harry,” Harry flinches at hearing the hollow body say his name for the first time, “I don’t have a name.” Frustration. The hollow body had forgotten what it feels like.

Harry shakes his head vigorously, and the hollow body realizes for the first time that Harry has curls that frame his face and bounce with the movement. He keeps his eyes tracked on one point, though, doesn’t let them divert his attention. He waits, because he finds he’s quite good at doing just that, and Harry doesn’t let him wait for long.

“Why do you think you don’t have a name?” He’s holding back, he realizes. Harry’s holding back judging by the way his mouth purses and one dimple appears even though he’s not smiling. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek. Holding back questions then. He thinks he can overwhelm the hollow body.

“I know I don’t have a name because people like me aren’t supposed to have one.”  He doesn’t hold back, unlike Harry Styles. Has no reason to. Tears are now freely trailing paths down Harry’s porcelain skin, and his eyes are red.

“What do you mean by people like you?” His voice breaks, like on the bus only about an hour ago. So much has happened in that hour. More than what has happened to the hollow body in a year.

“Hollow people.”

“How are you hollow? You’re human. No human can be hollow. They can only be hiding what they feel from others and themselves.” Harry thinks he speaks truth. The hollow body doesn’t.

“I’m hollow because I don’t think anymore, not like I used to. I don’t feel and I don’t react upon emotions.” The hollow body explains, and he suddenly feels thirsty. Thinking of a glass of water he desperately needs, he walks into the kitchen and knows Harry follows closely, fists by his sides and desperately trying not to burst into a fit of sobs. The hollow body wonders what he should to do undo his company. Harry Styles is terrible company. When his father awakes he’s going to be in much more trouble at this rate.

“Hollow people still have a soul, Louis.” Harry says once he steps into the kitchen. The hollow body sips from his cup, sets it onto the counter after. He’s not thirsty anymore.

“Not me.”

“ _Why not?_ ” He’s growing anxious for answers, thinks he wants them. He’d be surprised to know what he’s trying to get.

“I don’t deserve them, I cut them out. Can you leave please?” The hollow body slipped. _Louis_ slipped. He’s crossing boundaries, showed irrational annoyance towards Harry. He showed emotion.  Harry seems to notice as well, and his clouded gaze opens as he stares even more at Louis. There’s no getting out of this now.

“Why did you block them out?” Harry pressures, and Louis’ grip on the countertop tightens, glares at the green-eyed man in front of him.

“Why don’t you _get the fuck out of my house._ ” He’s angry. Too much anger. Louis feels like he’s about to explode. This is coming all at once, too much energy in his body. Passion, happiness, depression, annoyance, hate, excitement. _Too much._ Harry is causing this.  He switched Louis on and he doesn’t know how to switch himself off again.

“Tell me!”

“ _My mother got murdered in front of me._ ” It’s out in the free air, travels though sounds wave to Harry’s eyes and he can spot the exact moment the words hit Harry’s ears. Why did he say that? Has he lost all self-restraint already?

“Tell me more.” Harry murmurs. How can he ask such a thing? Does he even know what he wants from Louis? In return for what? Harry makes no sense.

“ _No_.”

He moves past him, pushes him away and walks up the stairs, hoping to hear the front door open and close as Harry walks away but he already feels he knows Harry Styles for the short amount of time they’ve been talking.  He knows Harry won’t let him get away. Once in his room he leaves the door open, decides to clean the broken glass from the living room surrounding his knocked-out father later. Harry walks in and Louis takes off his shirt, ready to sleep. He didn’t think it through, and he flinches at the feel of fingers pressing against the bruises at his back.

“Your dad did this?” Harry asks. Louis shrugs his hand away, and he walks into his bathroom. Harry follows of course, because that's all Harry seems to like to do. Grabbing the tweezers, Louis begins to take out the glass that has found its way under his skin.

"Let me do it." Harry says, and he carefully grabs the tweezers from his fingers. Louis can't do anything but let him. He just wants to sit down and close his eyes for once. Piece of glass, each one at a time, are taken out of his skin and Harry is finally quiet, concentrated on not wanting to hurt Louis than he already is and his fingers are delicate, like the time on the bus where his hand just barely brushed his wrist.

The moment Harry takes a large bandage (Louis is glad he didn't ask why there are so many under the sink) a carefully places on the injured part of his face, after dabbing cotton into alcohol and wiping the blood off,  Louis gets up and heads to bed, under the covers and turns off his light. He pulls the duvet up until it covers half his face as he lies by his side, back towards Harry. Harry gets under the covers with him, and he presses his front against Louis’ back, hooks his freezing toes to the front of Louis’ ankle. Louis winces at the sudden cold and, okay. That’s new as well. Was this how cold felt? He couldn’t possibly compare this experience to how it was before his mother was slit across her throat. If this was how cold felt, he’s glad he had not experienced it in a long time. It feels awful. It reminds him of loneliness. Is Louis lonely? He hadn’t thought about that before.

Wrapping an arm around Louis’ waist, Harry buries his nose into Louis’ hair Louis wants him to leave. He wants Harry Styles to leave and never come back because the moment he talked Louis' life was all about not going back to how it used to be. He doesn't say anything though and for reasons he can't understand he turns around to face Harry and places his head in the narrow space between Harry's head and shoulder.

Closing his eyes, Harry doesn't say a thing and instead lets sleep take him as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Even though this wasn't a serious story and just something I wanted to share, please leave your thoughts down below. I appreciate all input.  
> -Alex


End file.
